Places To Go And Secrets To Keep
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: When June asks Peter to keep watch of a fever-ridden Neal, the latter lets some info slip that he rather should have kept to himself and that gets him in a world of trouble. PG-13, Gen.


**Title:** Places To Go And Secrets To Keep**  
>Author: <strong>TeeJay  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Gen  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **Neal, Peter  
><strong>Written for: <strong>ariadnes_string as a response to the LiveJournal "Running Hot" multi-fandom fever comment fic meme  
><strong>Prompt: <strong>Feverish Neal spills the beans  
><strong>Would Like: <strong>Some time after the events of 3x01, Neal is ill/drugged/poisoned and in his delirious or simply kind of out-of-it state, he lets something slip about what he was really up in the episode. Peter hears (or overhears). What difference does it make that Peter knows?  
>I'm less interested in what Peter does with the information in the long term (though feel free to explore that) than I am in what difference it makes to Peter in the short term—looking after Neal, trying to get help for him. Does it change the way he treats Neal once he knows the truth?<br>Feel free to make the scenario as mundane or as life-or-death as you wish.  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for everything leading up to and including 3x01 'On Guard'  
><strong>Summary: <strong>When June asks Peter to keep watch of a fever-ridden Neal, the latter lets some info slip that he rather should have kept to himself and that gets him in a world of trouble.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Oh man, I'm doing it again. Seems like all I'm writing lately is Neal whump. But, well, it seems to be in great demand, so who am I to say no? He's also such an adorably easy whumpage target. Are two excuses enough to make it remotely okay?  
>This will obviously be AU-ish, with a pinch of added wishful thinking. Also, there's going to be unresolved angst. If you're a fan of happy endings, this probably isn't for you.<br>Tons of thanks to the trusty rabidchild67 for the beta.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.

* * *

><p>Logically, Peter couldn't really figure out how he found himself in this exact situation, how he had agreed to this. But he was here now all the same.<p>

It had started with a phone call from June—a concerned June. "Peter, if you don't mind, would you be able to look after Neal this afternoon? The poor boy has come down with something, and I'm a bit worried."

It turned out Neal had caught the office plague—or rather the 'flu that was going around. This alone was puzzling to Peter, because in all the time he had been chasing the man, he'd never seen him sick or even off his game. Well, unless lapses of judgment where Kate was concerned counted.

With Elizabeth out of town on business, June off to visit her son and Mozzie characteristically unable to reach, Peter reluctantly agreed to check in on Neal, even though he'd had other plans for his "home alone" Sunday.

The housekeeper let Peter in, and he rapped on the door to the loft, unsure what to expect. When he didn't get an answer, he carefully opened the door and let himself in, his eyes immediately fixed on the oak bed in the corner.

"Neal?" Peter asked into the silence.

"Go away," he could make out from what seemed like a bundle of off-white covers.

"Not the welcome I was hoping for."

It was then that Neal obviously realized who had just entered his apartment. The covers shifted and Neal's face emerged from underneath, his hair unruly and sticking out at odd angles. His face was flushed, his eyes an unhealthy kind of glassy.

"Peter?" Neal groggily muttered.

"Yeah, in the flesh."

"What are you doing here?"

"Making an appointment for my painting lesson. What do you _think_ I'm doing here?"

Neal let his head sink back into the pillow. "June called you."

"Yes, she did."

Neal sighed. "She shouldn't have. It's just a cold. I don't need a babysitter."

"Well, I made a promise to June, so..."

When Neal didn't respond, Peter edged a little closer to the bed, taking in the feverish pallor, the pained frown on his forehead. "You're really not doing so well, are you?" Peter asked.

"It's the headache that's killing me," Neal mumbled.

"Did you take your temperature?"

"Yeah," he said flatly without moving. "Like, two hours ago. It was 102 point something."

"Did you take anything for it?"

"Some Tylenol."

"When?"

"I don't know. A while? Peter, stop asking me questions."

"No can do. We should take your temperature again."

Neal just grunted but let Peter go through his ministrations with the thermometer. Peter looked at it when it beeped. "103.2. That's quite high. You should take some more meds to get that fever down."

"Can't. Took the last one," Neal said with his arm draped over his eyes to keep the light out.

"Well, then I guess I'm gonna have to go get some more."

"I'll be fine," Neal muttered.

"Yeah, I can see that. You're the fountain of liveliness." He gave the unmoving Neal another look. "Is there anything else you need from the pharmacy? Tissues? Lozenges? NyQuil?"

"No," Neal croaked, and Peter had a feeling that the question hadn't even fully registered.

Half an hour later, Peter reentered the loft with a plastic bag full of over-the-counter meds and two bottles of Gatorade. Armed with the Tylenol and one of the Gatorade bottles, he walked over to Neal's bed.

Neal looked like he had fallen asleep, and Peter wasn't sure whether to wake him or not. To get the fever down, he'd have to take some analgesics before long, but sleep was a good thing too. In the end, he left Neal to his own devices and settled on the sofa, switching on the TV. At least he'd be able to watch the game, even if it didn't come with a bottle of beer and his favorite pair of sweat pants.

It was three minutes before the final whistle that the noise from the other end of the room drew his attention. The moans coming from Neal had an alarming edge to them and he was thrashing about with his hands. Peter was by his side in a few, quick strides.

"Neal," he said. "Neal. Wake up. You're having a nightmare."

It didn't help, didn't calm Neal down.

Peter hovered there for a few, long seconds, then sat down on the edge of the bed and carefully took a hold of Neal's wrists. "Neal," he said again, this time louder, against Neal fighting to get his arms free. "You need to wake up."

He released one arm and put his hand on Neal's forehead. The gesture seemed to be calming him down somewhat, but the heat radiating from Neal's skin startled Peter. All the more important for him to take some of the fever medication.

"Neal," Peter said to him again, louder than he should have, but it finally had the desired effect as Neal opened his eyes.

"Peter?" he said, his forehead scrunched up in a frown.

"Yeah. You were having a nightmare." He rummaged around on the nightstand, holding out three of the Tylenol and the bottle of Gatorade to Neal. "Here, take these. We really need to bring your fever down."

Neal did as he was asked, but the sheer effort seemed to exhaust him. "It hurts," he muttered.

"What hurts?"

"Everything."

The lump forming in his stomach took Peter by surprise. After all that had happened recently, he didn't think there was still a sympathy this strong to be found in his heart for Neal Caffrey. "The meds should help with that," he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. "Just try to sleep some more."

He took the unintelligible grunt from Neal as acknowledgement. Peter stayed there and watched Neal, wondering how it could possibly be that a man who looked so forlornly innocent and vulnerable could have it in him to be as deceptive and callous as Peter suspected he was—maybe still suspected him to be.

Peter was startled when Neal suddenly spoke. "Moz?"

Peter frowned. Was Neal hallucinating now? "No, it's Peter. Moz is not here."

"Peter?" Neal repeated.

"Yeah."

"I need to call Moz. The plane, we need to get the plane ready."

"What plane, Neal? There is no plane. You used the plane to lure Lawrence out, to make sure they didn't kill Jones, remember?"

"No," Neal insisted. "We need to load the plane. Can you tell Mozzie that I'm going to be late? I need to finish the painting."

"What painting?"

"You _know_ what painting. The Chrysler. I need to repaint it, so Peter doesn't suspect."

This puzzled Peter, but something also dawned on him. Could it be...? A tiny voice in the back of his head told him it was wrong to keep asking Neal questions in his current state of mind, but a louder voice kept asking them anyway. "You repainted the Chrysler building?"

"It's not complete, I need to finish it."

"No, Neal, the painting is right here. Wait, let me show you."

He got up and went over to the corner of the room where Neal had stacked his recent paintings against the wall, pulling out the Cubistic one that depicted the Chrysler. He held it up so Neal could see it, stepping closer to the bed. "Do you mean this one?"

"No," Neal said in a hollow whisper. "No, that painting was on the U-boat. How can you... How is that possible? It burned. It all burned."

"Neal, we had it analyzed. The paintings we found in the rubble predated World War II. You're not making any sense."

_Unless,_ Peter thought, _Neal had conned him._ Again. His gaze bore into Neal, who had propped himself up to a sitting position. "Neal, are you saying you put the original Chrysler painting on the U boat so that they'd find traces of paint and canvas among the debris?"

"No," he said, "No, I didn't do that."

"Did someone else do it? Mozzie?"

"Mozzie?" Neal asked, confused. "Mozzie is getting the plane ready. I need to tell him I'm late."

"It's okay, Neal. I'll tell him," Peter said, if only to calm Neal down. "So what is it that Mozzie is putting on the plane? Are you planning on leaving with the art from the U-boat?"

"It's all in crates. We need to get it out of the country."

Was that the confession Peter had been waiting for? The confession to a crime he had long suspected but not been able to corroborate? He had to know. "Neal, I'm going to ask you again. Did you steal the art?"

"No," he said, the response quick, firm, convincing.

"But someone else did? Mozzie? Alex?"

"Alex?" Neal frowned. "No, not Alex. She's long gone."

"Did Mozzie steal the art?"

Neal didn't say anything, and the strained expression on his face told Peter he was trying to make sense of something that was hard to understand in his current state of mind.

With a suddenness that startled Peter, Neal threw off the covers and got to his feet. Obviously not something he should have done, because he began to sway dangerously to one side. Peter was there quickly to steady him. "Whoa, Neal, what are you doing?"

"I need to go," he said, his voice urgent.

"No, you're doing no such thing. You're in no condition to go anywhere."

"I need to meet with Moz," he kept insisting.

Peter planted himself firmly in front of Neal, taking him by his upper arms. He looked Neal straight in the eye. "Neal, listen to me. You're sick, you're not thinking clearly. There is no Moz waiting for you with a plane. You used the plane when we sent you in undercover as Gary Rydell. It had the Federal Reserve heist money on it. Mozzie flew it. It never took off. Do you remember that? Neal?"

Neal was back to the intense thinking, then he muttered, "Rydell."

"_Gary_ Rydell. One of your old aliases. Come on, you remember Gary, don't you? The fencing? Lawrence cut off your tie. You were really pissed off about that."

"Dark orchid purple. I liked that tie."

"I bet you did. Now, let's put you back to bed, all right?"

Neal nodded slowly. "All right."

Peter breathed a silent sigh of relief as Neal crawled back into bed. He watched him warily for a few, long moments. When he was fairly certain Neal had settled down, Peter drew in a breath and slowly released it. He turned around to walk over to the dining table, sitting down in one of the chairs.

What had just happened? Could he take anything Neal had said at face value? Was his fever-ridden mind just spinning wishful thinking scenarios in his head or had the illness dropped all his filters and defenses?

Peter still heard Diana's words in his head. _"He did have that getaway plane ready awfully fast."_ So if Neal and Mozzie had the art, they were planning to run, planning to take it out of the country, possibly fence it. Could Neal really be that deceiving, that calculated?

They'd already been at a similar crossroads in that hangar, when Neal had handed him his CI badge and turned around. But that had been different. It had been about Kate, about a better life with the woman he loved—a legit, almost legal getaway.

This was different: this was a declaration of war. There was nothing legit about it, and certainly nothing remotely legal. This was a cold and callous Neal Caffrey who was turning his back on everything that Peter had tried to build with him over the last year, turning his back on the people he cared about. But did he? Did he really care? Was Peter nothing more than a means to an end made clear with the Nazi treasure?

A cold, bitter rage built in his belly, a rage he'd been carrying with him ever since that burning painting floated down to his feet. A rage that was now flaring up again full force. It was hard to believe Neal would run, just like that, leave everything behind. Their partnership, heck, even friendship—it felt like a punch in the gut that Neal could just throw that away for a life of crime, a life on the run.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and got up from the table. He took another look at Neal in bed, trying to control his breathing. He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay in the same room with the cold, calculating conman inside of Neal, even as he was covered in layers of pitiful misery.

Peter contemplated his options. He could just leave and tell the housekeeper to make sure Neal wasn't leaving the house. Or... what? Were there even any other options? Try and get hold of the Little Guy? Yeah, not likely. And what good would that do? Whatever they were planning, he knew Mozzie would never confess to anything, and he had no evidence to confirm Neal's inadvertent blunder of a confession.

Even if Neal had repainted the Chrysler painting, how could he ever prove that? And how could it be that the burnt remains of the first one came back as pre-WWII? Had Neal been aware of their having it tested and manipulated the results? If so, this went even deeper than Peter had imagined.

This was driving him crazy. Neal had not stirred for the last fifteen minutes, which reassured Peter that he was out cold. He entered the hallway behind the kitchenette, going straight for the storage room where he knew Neal kept some of his supplies and material. There had to be something—a clue he could use to their advantage, a lead the FBI could investigate.

What he came up with was exactly zilch. In fact, the storage room was uncharacteristically empty. A few sculpting tools, half empty paint tubes, a tin of turpentine. A few cleaning utensils, a broom, a box with books (that Peter actually unpacked but found inconspicuous). Everything was remarkably clean, and maybe that was just another indication that Neal had planned to leave this life behind, leave nothing that was of personal value.

Sitting on the floor, putting the last few books back in the cardboard box, Peter heard footsteps approaching, and a few seconds later Neal shuffled closer, on the way to the bathroom. He spotted Peter through the open door, stopping in the doorway.

"Peter, what are you doing in my storage room?" he said in a tired, raspy voice.

"I don't know," Peter said sharply. "Looking for evidence?"

The frown on Neal's forehead deepened. "To prove what?"

Peter sighed. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to discuss this right now."

"Is this still about the Chrysler painting?"

"Oh, it's about so much more than that."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Peter got up from the floor and dusted off his jeans. "Like I said, I think that's another conversation for another time." He closed the door of the storage room behind him and walked back to the living area with Neal following close behind.

Peter went over to the closed balcony door, staring out the window onto the impeccably kept space outside. Neal shuffled to the sofa, gingerly sitting down, yet keeping a cautious eye trained on Peter's back.

An uneasy silence that went on far too long settled before Neal interrupted it, sounding very weary. "So we're back to the whole U-boat thing again? It hardly seems fair to bring it up again now, like this."

Peter spun around, his eyes dark with subdued anger. "You wanna talk about fairness? That's a good one."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"No, I bet you don't."

"Peter, what is going on?"

Peter knew he should not be doing this right now, but he couldn't hold back. "You were planning to run. Take the plane and run, that day, when—" He stopped mid-sentence, looking at Neal, taking in the slumped shoulders, the struggle to keep upright, keep his attention focused on what Peter was saying. "You know what? We're not discussing this now."

"Peter, I..."

But Peter lifted his arms, fending off whatever excuse was going to come out of Neal's mouth.

"No. You're going back to bed and I'm going home. June said she would be back later tonight. You're perfectly capable of staying on your own for a few hours."

With that, Peter grabbed the light jacket he'd hung over one of the chairs. "I hope you feel better," he said as he opened the apartment door, but there was no sympathy in his voice.

* * *

><p>It took a full two days for Neal to show his face again. He'd sent Peter a text message on Monday that he was calling in sick for the next two days. Peter didn't reply.<p>

On Tuesday evening, as Peter was fixing himself dinner, there was a rap on the door. From the absence of barking on Satchmo's part, Peter had a suspicion that it might be Neal. And sure enough, there he was, pale-faced and more subdued than his usual self, standing in the doorway with an unreadable expression.

Peter just stood with the door in his hand until Neal finally asked, "Are you not even going to let me in?"

"I'm still trying to decide."

"Please," Neal said. The plea was genuine—and enough for Peter to buckle.

Neal walked over to the dining table and put his hands on the back of one of the chairs without sitting down, carefully watching Peter. "I think we need to talk."

"You think?" Peter asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"Peter, I don't know what you believe I did, but I just feel blindsided here. Don't you think you at least owe me an explanation?"

"I'm not sure I owe you anything, Neal."

"Clearly, something happened when you were in my apartment on Sunday. Did I say anything?"

"Oh, you said plenty."

Neal rubbed one hand over his face. "Did I talk in my sleep?"

"Sleep, fever dream, hallucination, whatever you wanna call it."

"And I said what exactly?" Neal asked.

"Let me see. There was something about a plane you and Mozzie were loading full of crates that you needed to take out of the country. And something about the Chrysler painting that you had to finish reproducing because _'Peter'_," he drew imaginary quotation marks in the air, "would suspect. It wasn't hard to figure out from there what was going on."

Neal stood there, swallowing, silently digesting the information. He lowered his head, staring at the floor, drawing in a breath that he held.

Peter interrupted the silence. "Now look me in the eye and tell me you weren't planning to run with the Nazi treasure."

Neal raised his head and met Peter's eyes, and there were a million answers in them, including the one that Peter had been looking for. Neal not denying it spoke volumes.

Peter slammed a palm down on the tabletop that made Neal jump. "Dammit, Neal, _why_? Why would you throw all this away and run? Did you even have any second thoughts? Any at all?"

Neal's voice was meek, low. "Yes. More than you can imagine."

"And yet you were ready to throw it all away. If Lawrence hadn't taken Jones, you would've, wouldn't you?"

Neal nodded slowly. "Yes."

Peter shook his head from side to side, throwing his arms in the air. "I don't— I guess I don't understand. You're not a bad person. I thought... I thought we had something good here."

Neal now raised his voice. "And that's where you're wrong. I _am_ a bad person. It's all I know. It's what I do best. I con people. I smile and rob them of their prized possessions. It's what you hired me for, Peter. What do you think I've been doing for the past year? I've been running FBI-sanctioned cons. I mean, yeah, sure, you can argue that something good came out of most of them. But that doesn't change the fact that it's still a con."

"That's painting things awfully black and white."

"Is it?"

"What are you saying, Neal?"

"You're really good at bending the facts so it fits in your little good guy/bad guy view of the world. And no matter how much you consider yourself open-minded, your horizon doesn't expand much beyond that white picket fence, law-abiding existence you know. You've always known I was never going to uphold those principles, and yet you expect me to fit into this mold you've created for me. I don't fit into that mold, and I never will. That's why."

"Wow, that's..."

"What, Peter? That's what? Eye-opening?"

Peter's mouth was a hard line, his eyes cold. "Leave," he growled.

"Really? You're throwing me out?"

"Get out of my house. Now."

The tone was harsh enough for Neal to know he had no choice but to comply. When he reached the door, he turned around. "Are you going to put me back in prison?"

Peter's eyes narrowed and his voice was strained. "I don't know."

Neal looked at him for a long moment, then opened the door and left without another word.

Peter watched the door click into its lock and pondered his last words. It was true. He didn't know. And it killed him that Neal was twisting a sling around his heart that was being pulled tauter than any time before.

Nothing would ever be the same after this. And Peter hated it.

* * *

><p>THE END.<p> 


End file.
